


The Demon Within

by SkeiFire



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Blood and Gore, Gen, Grimdark, Horrorterror, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkeiFire/pseuds/SkeiFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rose Lalonde was 7 years old, she had a birthday party. And at this party, she made a wish that miraculously came true. It was everything she had hoped for.</p><p>And then she realized the price she had to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hierophant's Arrival

Your name is ROSE LALONDE, and today, you have finally reached the largest landmark in your entire life.

You honestly weren’t expecting anyone to ring the doorbell on this chilly, bleary-eyed January morning, but because your mother had decided to invite people over (and you aren’t as ungracious as to turn people away at the door), you’ve reached your current predicament. One that you outwardly claim to resent, though you were actually secretly hoping for.

Your modest house is decorated in party streamers of pink and purple colors, celebrating an occasion that you have been raised to believe to have a somewhat laughable amount of significance. You are currently seated in your one and only high chair at the head of your dining room’s rectangular table. Your three best friends are in their respective chairs, with one on the right and two on the left, while your baby kitten sits in his own chair to fill the awkward open space. Composed, you sit quietly as your guests make ridiculous banter to amuse you.

Today is your 7th birthday, and this is your party.

"--and that’s how I found out I was allergic to peanuts!” One of the boys exclaims, a bit too enthusiastic to share his severe medical condition. “Isn’t that cool? You think it’s cool, right? Dave? Rose?”

“Mhm.” You respond apathetically, not even looking in his direction. He apparently notices this, however, and you’re met with an indignant whine.

“Gosh, Rose! Were you even listening?" The high-pitched pouts of none other than John Egbert reach your ears, and with a slight smile, you give him a sidelong glance. His messy black hair is full of cowlicks, and his big blue eyes are wide underneath a slightly furrowed brow. Just by looking at his face you can tell that he has a bad habit of sucking his thumb, what with his comically large front teeth, but you also used to see him with his blanket all the time in daycare. You’re pretty sure that he’s going to be a dentists’ gold mine when he gets older, but you pride yourself on having restrained yourself from using anything aside from a pacifier as a baby.

"Aww, it’s alright, John! I thought that was a pretty interesting story, especially the part where your dad carried you to the car after you accidentally ate the sandwich!” A girlish voice replies to John’s concern, something akin to sunshine in her tone. Jade Harley isn't really your friend, but your mom works for her grandfather's company, and you know that it's best to be on good terms with her. Despite her wealthy inheritance, Jade is fairly nice to you, and you have no reason to act sour towards her. You smile in her direction, as she saved you the trouble of responding to John’s quiry, and she responds with a goofy grin as John inhales to continue his story.

"--When is food getting here? I’m hungry." A quieter voice interjects suddenly. John’s mouth was half-way into forming the start of a new sentence, but even his attention was diverted as someone else decided to join in on the conversation. Looking to your left, you meet the crossed arms and slightly-red face of Dave Strider, who still seems to be in a huff about being forced into a high chair. Of the three guests attending your party, you think of him to be your closest friend, though you’re fairly sure that he has no idea what he’s talking about when he uses things “ironically”. You’ve noticed in the past at school that he has a hard time making friends, but in the four or five hours he’s been here, he’s miraculously opened up to two new people-- an accomplishment you almost didn’t expect.

Your ears prick slightly in your reminiscing, and you recognize the muted sound of adult murmuring. Looking past John and Dave, you squint in the direction of the kitchen. You manage to catch the lights turning off, and small, warm flickering lights dancing against the far wall. _Good timing,_ you think, and before John can start off a new tangent, you silence him with a quiet finger against your lips.

The house lights dim, fading to blackness. John lets out an audible gasp as Jade giggles, clapping her hands excitedly. The scent of confectionery perfection weaves its way into the room, and you inhale deeply. As much as you resent your mother's insistence to feed you the treats and sweets that your godmother bakes, you truly do love the old woman’s cooking. Besides, what seven year old can resist a red velvet and cream cheese birthday cake?

_Happy birthday to you,_

The singing starts softly as four flickering pieces of fire come into view around the kitchen corner. Roxy, your mother, is carrying a circular cake about as large as a dinner plate. The light illuminats her pale skin eerily, as if she's ethereal, and her natural eye color is exchanged with a pitch black in the dimness. Her smile is wide and warm, endures through the syllables she sings. Your mother doesn’t typically like to sing, but she always makes an exception for your birthday. Among the deep voices of the men, and the old woman’s gentle crone, her voice is mesmerising. You can’t look away.

_Happy birthday to you,_

The procession behind Roxy emerges from the kitchen. First, it’s your godmother, whom you call Auntie. Or, more informally, Nanna, who is actually John's grandmother. Because of extraneous circumstances, however, your mom had designated Nanna to be your second guardian in case something happened. Your mom's boss, Mr. Harley, has his hand gently resting on Nanna's shoulder, a smile barely visible underneath his bushy mustache. Entering last is none other than Dirk Strider, whom, though aloof, is a thoughtful and considerate man. You don’t quite understand how he met your mother, but you know that they’re incredibly close.

But none of that really matters, because now that you can see it clearly, dear _squiddly_  does that cake look good.

_Happy birthday dear Ro-se,_

The sugary masterpiece is placed in front of you on the table, your eyes about level with the tips of the candles. The glowing orange flames seem to dance to the rhythm of your breathing, and you can feel all seven sets of eyes on you as your mother removes her hands from the cake.

_Happy birthday to you._

The chorus ends on a flat and rather loud note as John interjects dramatically, causing Nanna and the Harleys to burst out laughing. Roxy offers a mild chuckle while Dirk and Dave remain passive, but even in the darkness you can _feel_  them smiling.

Today is a good day.

Today is your birthday.

Today is the day you turn 7.

"Make a wish, honey." Your mother whispers the reminder in your ear, her voice as smooth as silk. You bite your lip silently, thinking hard. Everyone already knows that you take this process very seriously, and even though the other three kids are obviously anxious to feast on their next meal, they can live, you think. If you waste this wish, you have to wait a whole year to make another one, you think. The silence in the room spans eons as everyone waits for you to blow out the candles. You have their attention in the palm of your hand. What’s eluding your grasp, however, is what you should wish for.

You could easily wish for a pony. That’s what you wished for last year, and it couldn’t hurt to stay consistent. Or, maybe, you could wish for one of those new gaming systems that came out last Christmas (which you abstained from purchasing simply because you were too attached to your original DS, which is covered in cat stickers to this day). You could wish for something for Jasper’s sake, even though that’s not really how wishes work. But you like being different.

Thinking differently is something you enjoy.

Being different is what defines you.

...So why not take it a step further?

In unison with the seven sets of lungs, you take a deep breath.

_I wish I was special._

The candles are blown out in one large breath.

There is a loud bout of clapping as your mother slips away to turn the lights back on. Your kitten, Jaspers, politely meows his congratulations at you from behind Jade. You can tell that your friends are all too focused on the cake to give their own individual cheers to you, so when Dirk suddenly moves towards you with a cutting knife, you try your best to scoot the tower of saccharine substances in his direction in order to release the spell the delicious monstrosity has over your friends. The lights fade in as he cuts exactly eight pieces, and Nanna produces plates without missing a beat.

"I want the one with the flower on it!" Jade exclaims as Mr. Harley starts doling out the wedges. The corporate princess is given what she wants, and she doesn’t hold back. It doesn't bother you all that much, seeing as it's still _your_ name on the cake she's eating, but you can't help the slight irritation that sinks into your brow before you feel your mother's calming touch on the back of your neck.

"Which slice would you like, Rosie?" She asks you, leaning over so that her unblemished features hovered right next to yours. With uncharacteristic shyness, you point to the one with a capital R in white cursive frosting. Dave and John were shoveling cake already, but all of the adults had politely restrained themselves in favor of you, the birthday girl. Your preferred piece is delivered without question, and you're handed a purple plastic fork. "I hope you enjoy it, dearie!" Nanna smiles from across the table, her dentures glinting a bit in the light. You nod happily in her direction, and proceed to dig in.

The festivities last long into the afternoon. Pin the tentacles on the octopus provided interesting results when John missed the target completely. Dave accidentally sliced your octopus pinata in half when he was given the baseball bat, though only you, John, Jade, and Dirk seemed approving of the result. You manage to convince Jade to play the werewolf in a make-believe fantasy game, and she turns out to be a surprisingly good antagonist. While the adults watch from lawn chairs, childish laughter fills your backyard. You've never had as much fun in your life; and things only got better from there. You accidentally smack John in the head with a foam noodle during your Star Wars recreation, and you managed to wrestle Dave to the ground (though he won in the end). The highlight of the whole day, however, was when you cleverly tricked Jade into getting locked outside during duck-duck-goose.

By the time the sun starts to set, the four of you are breathless, lying in the trampled grass with your eyes toward the firefly-lit sky. You tickle Dave's foot with your toes, getting disgruntled noises from a much-too-tired boy while John and Jade guffaw to themselves.

"Can you stop that already?" Dave manages to groan, rolling over on his side and curling his knees in attempt to move out of your reach. "The tickle monster never stops!" You reply with a muted war cry, propping yourself up on your elbows before crab-crawling towards him. Once you get close enough, you balance on one leg, lifting up the other and waving your dirt-covered foot in his face. "En garde, knight of valor!”

"En garde? What's that mean?" John asks from beside you as you lunge once more for Dave, who has by this point scrambled to his hands and knees in order to get away. "Beats me! Maybe it's like, French, or something." Jade replies dreamily. You, however, are too busy chasing the young Mr. Strider, running by now, though both of you are sorely out of shape. Your hands are outstretched, grasping at his fluttering white shirt hem. An inch-- a centimeter-- you've got him! Your fingers wrap around fabric right before he is swept up out of your eye-level, making you lose your grip. You manage to run right underneath Dave's dangling feet before you realize your short-lived success and flustered confusion paints your face red as you turn to see what's happened.

"Sorry, Rose. The lil' guy an' I gotta go." Dirk apologizes, Dave's flailing limbs and embarrassed screeching voicing his discontent with his own situation. John and Jade simultaneously moan complaints from somewhere to your right, and you can't help but feel a bit disheartened yourself, panting out breaths here and there to recover from your sprint. "Do you have a long job tonight, Dirk?" Your mother's voice comes from behind you, and her hand caresses the crown of your head. With your neck craned upwards, you see the man's head bob in response, his sunglasses glinting in the dimming twilight. Dave's legs have, at this point, fallen limp in submission.

"I got the call earlier this mornin'," He explains. You start to tune him out as he begins to speak about terms and conditions you don’t understand, and your exhaustion makes you impatient for him to finish. But your mother's hand keeps you rooted in place, obedient, as you shift from foot to foot.

Your mind starts to wander a bit. You begin to wonder if your wish will come true. And if it comes true, when will it become apparent? You stare off into the distance mindlessly before Roxy taps her forefinger on your headband, returning your attention to the discussion.

"What if I keep him for the night? Rosie, you were thinking about having a sleepover next week, right? How about I move up a bit, and you have an extra-long party?" Your mother offers. Your eyes lift from the ground to Dirk's face, who meets your growing anticipation behind his shades. A smile spreads across your face.

"Can I?" You ask giddily.

You see Dirk's lip twitch up into a smile, and in the blink of an eye, Dave is on the ground, still slightly dazed from having blood rush to his head. You take his hand and pull him towards John and Jade as your mom begins discussing the details with Dave's guardian, and the four of you reunite. Jade’s hand manages to find its way into your grip. Your eyes meet John's as his fingers link with Dave’s. The black-haired pair clumsily slap palms together, and the four of you are suddenly in a small, tight circle, as you never let go of Dave. A deep, wordless understanding passes between all of you, and you realize very suddenly that you incorrectly used your wish.

 _I wish that I'll always stay friends with them,_ you think to yourself. You know it's too late for that to count as your official wish, but you don't care. It had to be said sometime, so that you would let whoever-- whatever-- was listening in on your thoughts know that, yes, you cared about these dorks, and you never, ever wanted to see them go.

"Ro-se, ki-ds?" Your mother calls across the yard at last. You turn to look over your shoulder, subtly squeezing the hands in your grasp. _Please let them stay, please let them stay..._

"Darlings, head inside, it's starting to get cold out. Rose, grab some pillows blankets from the foyer closet. I'll set up a movie for you all to watch in the living room, pronto." Roxy says, a smile on her face. Dirk is nowhere in sight, probably having already left for whatever he needed to do, though Nanna and Mr. Harley are off to the side, watching you expectantly. You show a smile of your own, nodding excitedly before letting go of Dave's hand, dragging Jade (and John, who was still clinging to Dave) inside. Tonight was going to be great. You had just the movie in mind to watch, and as much as Egbert was going to try to badger you, there was no way you were going to watch National Treasure two times in a row.

Popcorn is swiftly prepared by the four of you, though John messed up melting the butter. Dave offered to clean it up for you, which you gladly accepted (as you were too short to reach the microwave, even on the step-stool), and you and Jade then managed distributing the popcorn evenly between four bowls. Dave finished cleaning earlier than you had expected while using some kind of secret culinary technique, and the two of you then walked out into the hallway to grab some stuff to sleep on. Your mother pulled the built-in mattress out of your living room couch, and Dave oh-so-carefully threw pillows all over it. One blanket was provided for each movie viewer, including your mother. “She’s going to watch it _with_ us?” Dave had asked, almost in shock. “No, Dave. She’s going to read the synopsis online and then have us answer questions about the plot afterwards.” You responded with a snort, taking a fifth blanket as a precaution.

Your mom read your mind without even trying, you conclude as you returned with the blankets. She had set up the DVD player with the Princess Bride, and you were ecstatic to see it for a fourth or fifth time. “This is what you wanted, right?” Your mother smiles as you ceremoniously dump your bundle onto the mattress. “It was sitting on the table, so I thought you probably had it planned out already.”

You nod. “I was planning on educating Egbert on proper movie quotations,” You say rather pompously, and a muffled exclamation comes from the kitchen. A mass of black hair pops out from the doorway. “What’d you say, Rose?! Huh?! You wanna go?!” He challenges, a fist balled in your direction. Your mother gives a roll of her eyes before you smugly respond, “Inconceivably, no.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dave smirk at John's bewildered expression.

Your mother takes the second couch while you, Dave, John, and Jade pile on top of each other, balancing your bowls wherever you can find space. Jade snuggles into your side while Dave allows John to rest against his leg, and your mom uses a remote to start the movie. Before Princess Buttercup even gets to her first line, though, you’ve kicked John at three time to make his obnoxious remarks stop. “And you call yourself a cinephile!” You whisper furiously. “I am a cinephile!” He responds hushedly, sticking out his tongue. Five minutes later, you hear him ask Dave what a cinephile actually is. You snort.

Before you know it, it’s dark out. Inigo has finally gotten his revenge on the 6-fingered man, Westley has been reunited with the Princess, and your popcorn bowl is empty. In the light of the TV screen’s scrolling credits, your mother is sleeping soundly, John is snoring with his mouth agape, leaning against the backrest where mattress met sofa, and Jade and Dave are tucked under the same blanket after fighting for it around the poison-drinking scene with you on Jade’s left at the edge of the bed. Your eyelids are heavy, as they should be, since it’s already somehow become 11:30.

You turn your head to get more comfortable. The soundtrack that plays along with the credits makes it hard to stay awake. Sleep will overtake you soon, you can feel it. You muffle a yawn, not wanting to disturb the others, grabbing your favorite pillow and burying your face into it. You can tell that Jaspers had been rubbing himself on it earlier due to the fuzz that accidentally enters your nostrils, but luckily, you don't sneeze. Instead, you hear a slight rustling sound. And then, a hair-raising noise-- as if something is dragging itself along the carpet.

All at once, you are reminded of your fear of the dark. You had grown out of nightlights around the age of 4, but you were usually asleep by the time the moon was unable to filter through your bedroom window. To your dismay, there were no such windows in the living room, clouds were apparently obscuring the moon, and the single ray of light (aside from the TV) was being cast from a small wall-plug near the kitchen.

The racket gets louder. You can tell that it's approaching you, but you can't bring yourself to move. You'd disturb Jade, and, well, it'd be stupid if it was just your paranoia that woke her up. But for some reason, you can tell that this isn't just your typical run of the mill bedtime story monster. Something was actually crawling across your floor. And apparently it was coming from the direction of your front door, as iit was casting a shadow unlike any you had ever seen as it made its way towards the back of the couch your mom was sleeping on. You feel your throat tighten. Maybe it was just Jaspers. But what was the breathing lump of fur next to your arm? Perhaps it was one of your wind up dolls. But dolls don't wind themselves up, and you don't even have any dolls that wind up to begin with. With a tremendous feat of self-restraint, you freeze, trying to figure out what grotesque form would be able to cast such a shadow. You’re not going to scream. You not going to be scared. It’s just your imagination.

You see a small tentacle flop out from behind the couch.

Your breathing stops.

The blob hauls itself into view, and you finally get to see what shape had caused the penumbra you had seen. The creature is actually no larger than your kitten. In all honestly, it looks like a small octopus, but as far as you can tell, it seems to be missing a few legs. Two eyes that are comically large for its tiny body blink, its pupils rapidly contracting and expanding in order to adjust to the shift in light from the kitchen to the living room.

And then, they focus on you.

The tentacles never stop twitching, but you can see its face intently studying yours. You lay motionless, praying that you're hallucinating like your mother when she drinks her sharp-smelling grape juice. You hope that, whatever it is, it's not dangerous. You wonder if this is all just a dream, and if today wasn't actually your birthday at all. Then, suddenly, its entire body shudders. And somehow, the creature makes the sweetest, softest chirps you've ever heard.

_”...R...Ro-se?”_

Your eyes widen. It recognizes that you're conscious, and seems to hop a little bit, its appendages flopping about in delight. Your head lifts slightly, and you wonder yet again if this is a dream. Being careful not to startle Jaspers, you do your best to slide off the bed without disturbing anybody else. You drag yourself forward towards the end of the bed and put your elbows on the carpet, supporting your weight with your arms before gently removing your legs from the tangle. Once completely on the floor, you crawl on your elbows towards the tiny squid-thing. It, in response, begins to squirm its way towards you, all the while making clicking noises in your direction.

You're not quite sure what to think of it, really. It doesn't look like any animal that you've encountered at the zoo before, and your mother sure hasn't told you about any squids or octopi that look like this. Yet, as you reach out a tentative hand, the ball of smooth scale-like flesh rolls its way into your palm, its writhing limbs wrapping around your fingers and wrist as you lift it off the floor and out of the shadow.

It hums into your hand. Somehow, deep inside of you, you know that something is wrong with the purple-hued… thing. But at the same time, you can't bring yourself to call it a "thing". It communicated with you, which means that it's at least sentient. And as you tilt its body this way and that, you can see that it has a sort of iridescent sheen in the pale light.

"What's your name?" You whisper towards it. The eyes which had so innocently gazed at you from behind the couch look up once again, its entire body seeming to rotate in your palm in order to inspect your down-turned face. The creature seems to think, or so you believe, before it chirps its response.

_"ph-le-gu-th-gn"_

Your brow scrunches slightly. It had spouted nothing but a mixture of consonants and a few vowels. Perhaps you had been imagining things when you heard it call you earlier.

"...can you understand me?" You attempt, giving it the benefit of the doubt.

_"y-es"_

...that's strange, you think to yourself. It can understand you and say your name, but it can't pronounce its own? You try again, just to make sure.

"Can you say your name one more time?" Though politeness might be wasted on the creature, you figure it couldn't hurt to try.

_"ph-l-eg-u-th-gn!"_

"Phleguthgn." You repeat, confirming what you think you heard. Its body seems to shiver in delight as soon as the last consonant falls off your lips, and for a moment, you swear you feel it pulsate in your palm. _"Ye-s,"_ it chirps, its tentacles curling and unfurling rapidly.

"What are you doing here?" You question, tempted to poke its strange, squishy form. The alien rolls around your hand before its eyes once again meet yours.

 _"y-ou-wi-shed-fo-r-m-e"_  It squeaks brokenly.

Incredulously, you squint.

This has got to be some kind of joke, you think. Sure, wishing on the candles of your birthday cake is a tradition that you follow for the sake of your friends and to maintain some sort of image. But for something like this to come true? You couldn't believe it. Logic wouldn't allow for an occurrence such as this... right? Yet... Here he--she--it is, Phleguthgn, gently squeezing your thumb in its tentacles, begging for your attention with high-pitched clicks and squeals.

As naive as the mass of scales and flesh seems to be, you can tell that this being holds more knowledge than you could imagine. Your hand is growing numb simply from being in contact with it. It was extraterrestrial, that much you could tell, yet it seemed oddly attached to you, and willing to answer whatever you wanted. And there question had been bothering you from earlier, so... why not ask?

"...Phleguthgn... Am I... _special_  now?"

The tentacles stop moving.

For the longest time, the creature doesn't so much as twitch. Towards the end, you're terrified-- had you broken the spell? Was this all a joke after all? But then, you see its eyes dilate to the size of dimes-- then shrink to points as tiny as needles.

 _"...ye-s"_ It chirrs.

In the darkness, leaning against the couch with your shoulder, you stare at the simply impossible creature in your care. It seems so innocent-- so... cute, even. Gazing deeply into its eyes, you want nothing more than to take care of it, and see it grow into whatever it becomes. You feel a wave of drowsiness suddenly wash over you. That's right-- it's midnight. You have to go to sleep soon. The credits of the movie have already ended, not that you actually noticed them stopping. But you're afraid that if you go to sleep now, Phleguthgn will vanish somehow, and you'll never figure out the mysteries surrounding its appearance.

Then, as if it’s heard what you thought, it smiles.

You're not sure how something without a distinguishable face can smile. You're also not sure where its mouth is, because the tentacles are obscuring most of your view of the creature’s body. But you can tell that the tiny being is smiling at you, and for a moment, everything seems right with the world. Your previous concerns are wiped away, as if by magic. The feeling of euphoria, though you don't know it's name, washes over your mind. Your mind goes blank, and your head tilts for no reason, forcing your eyes to make contact with the alien that's staring up at you.

This is your new companion. This creature, Phleguthgn, has been bestowed on you by whatever higher power there is, and you are to take care of it with utmost responsibility.

Somewhere deep inside of you, a strangled voice cries out in panic. A moment of fear wells up in you, and you get the sudden instinct to fling the mass of worm-like appendages against the wall. But before you can, you lock eyes with it again. Its smile is still firmly in place, its tentacles pressing, poking, slithering across your skin.

You’re suddenly calm again. And unwittingly, you smile back.

Your name is ROSE LALONDE. You are now SEVEN YEARS OLD. And you have unintentionally made a contract with one of THE NOBLE CIRCLE'S SIX SERAPHIMS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was inspired by [this post](http://sermna.tumblr.com/post/46965361435/morningthief-sermna-rose-who-lives-on-the)\-- specifically, the comment that sermna made.


	2. Four Years Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years later, Rose's debts catch up to her.
> 
> TW: gore, blood, major character death, psychological damage, nudity, vomiting, reverse vore

Your name is still ROSE LALONDE. You are now TEN YEARS and THREE-HUNDRED-AND-SIXTY-FOUR DAYS OLD. And so far, your life has been nothing short of PERFECT.

In the four years that Phleguthgn has been your companion, you have gotten pretty much everything you've ever wanted. You can sleep in late on weekdays and have your mother drive you around without a single complaint on her end. She picks you up when you want her to, without you even calling or notifying her, and even signs you out when you decide that you're sick of the idiots at Crocker Middle School for the afternoon. She bends to your every whim, whether you speak it aloud or not, and best of all, doesn't pry. She's bought you headphones, a trip to Disney World, a new computer, video games, presents for your friends, a pony, and anything you've seen on the internet that suited your fancy. Most of the objects have been discarded or stored somewhere around the house, but should you ever want to fetch them again, your mother will find it for you. Your mom has filled up your previously empty shelves with novel after novel, per your request, even buying you some of those yaoi and yuri comics a girl named Nepeta showed you. You don't have to cook, clean, do your chores, or even do your homework. Your teachers don't seem to care, because every time you walk into class they act as if you don't exist. You're fine with that. You can goof off during lessons, cause a ruckus, or even walk right back out of the room. They never mark you absent, and frankly, that suits you just fine.

 _"Do you want to play another game?"_  Phleguthgn asks cheerfully, its tentacles slickly caressing your arm. "Sure, why not?" You respond, smiling a bit as you hit the restart button. You're sitting at your desktop, a powerful computer tower humming quietly next to your leg.  _$2,000 well spent,_ you think to yourself, mindlessly whistling a tune as the game screen loads. It's currently winter break in your small New York hometown of Rainbow Falls-- but to you, every day is a holiday.

 _"Rose,"_  Phleguthgn starts. "Hmm?" You respond, its body mass resting on your left shoulder. Three of its tentacles were lightly draped over your opposite shoulder, twining themselves under your arm for support. The other three were curled around your neck, the tendrils crossing over themselves before hanging down the back of your chair, much like scarf. It was a comfortable position-- one that you had grown accustomed to the first day your companion had come into your life. You carry it with little to no effort, even though it appears to be quite large. It weighs no more than a pound, despite being the size of a softball. Your fingernail taps against your mouse, waiting for what it was intending to say.

 _"Your birthday is tomorrow, isn't it?"_ It inquires, curiosity in its chirping voice. "Mhm." You agree, your eyes focused on your computer screen. Phleguthgn is silent for a little bit. You can feel its eyes searching your face, then occasionally glancing at what you're doing in your game of Mass Effect 2. A small purr begins somewhere in its body, and makes your bones tingle. _"Do you know what that means?"_ It asks, its silver irises contracting and expanding rapidly in excitement, its tentacles eagerly squeezing your flesh.

"Mhm." You agree again, biting your lip in concentration as you focus in for a snipe-shot on a Collector. Phleguthgn seems to deflate a bit, high-pitched clicking noises vibrating next to your ear. Immediately, your body turns away from the computer, jerking as if you were a robot. You forget about the game, and your eyelids droop a little bit as you stare at the wall. There is nothing else in the room aside from your companion. There is nothing else you care about.

 _"What does it mean, Rose?"_ The voice coos again. Tentacles start to slide over your bare skin. You're not wearing anything, cooped up in your room, only a few minutes to midnight. Your surroundings are view-able only because of a floor-to-waist purple lava lamp that casts a tinged light across your bed, bookshelves, and door. Your computer screen casts a the shadow of your own head, along with the bulbous form of your companion, almost making it look as if you have a second head in the shape of Medusa. The snakes writhe and squirm, your shadow-shoulders moving on the floor, Phleguthgn's patchwork of flesh and scale feeling perpetually chilled to you. Over the years, you've noticed that your body temperature has substantially dropped compared to anybody else you come in contact with. Accidentally, of course. Master doesn't like it when anybody else gets to touch you.

"It means... it's been... four years..." You say, your voice airy. Your head is light. You see the world around you, yet at the same time, you see nothing. Your eyes glaze over. _"Yes,"_ Phleguthgn purrs. Its appendages gently slip down your figure, covering your exposed skin with a secretion that you've never quite been able to describe. You get goosebumps as the cold fluid dribbles down your arms and flat chest, landing on your thighs. The tang of salt reaches your nose, but you don't react abnormally. You've gotten used to that smell.

 _"Do you know what else it means?"_ Phleguthgn asks. Your head shakes slightly. No, you don't know. In less than a few minutes, it would be your birthday. The anniversary of the day you had met. Wasn't that all? You hadn't wished for anything else in the last three years, and tomorrow would be no different. You had Phleguthgn to take care of you. Phleguthgn provided everything you needed. You didn't need food, sleep, or even water to sustain yourself. You had grown into the first stages of puberty already, though your figure was slender and unblemished. You were perfect in every way, and wishes were inconsequential to you now. You only needed Phleguthgn. It recognized your subconscious praise. You felt a tentacle slide up to cup your face, and you smiled.

_Wouldn't it be nice if we were together forever?_

The voice is in your head now. Sometimes, it does that. It probes into your mind and communicates with you that way. It sends tingles down your spine, knowing that Phleguthgn can so easily infiltrate your brain. But you don't care. You have nothing to hide from it. _Yes,_  you think, answering its question. _It would be wonderful if we were together forever._

_Wouldn't it be amazing if you could use magic, too?_

_I've always wanted to use magic,_ you think. Through the haze of emotional repression, you feel a nervous giddiness bubble through. _I want it._

 _Wouldn't it be great, then,_ your master's voice softly whispers, _if the two of us shared one body?_

 _Yes, Phleguthgn,_ you respond without hesitation.

**DING. DONG.**

The clock in the hallway outside your bedroom strikes midnight with such force that it rings in your ears. Your entire form shivers, and you snap out of your trance.

You're standing now. When did you turn away from your computer? What happened to Garrus and Miranda? You attempt to glance over your right shoulder to view your screen, but you're stopped by a massive wall of tentacles. Your head flicks to the other side, but your sight is once again blocked by Phleguthgn's appendages. Your hands reach up to pull the mass away from your body, but as soon as your arms become parallel to the floor, Phleguthgn's tentacles lock firmly into place. You cry out as it exerts pressure you've never felt before. The monster had only ever been gentle with you, and now, you were frightened beyond belief. "L-let me go!" You exclaim, trying to squirm from your torso-up in order to shake it off. To no avail, however-- you knew that its grip was too strong.

 _"My name, Rose,"_ the creature says aloud with its invisible mouth. It's no longer the sweet and soft voice you knew, but a strange distortion of the English language, consonants and vowels seeming to insert themselves randomly at different pitches into its speech. "No!" You shout, trying to defy the will of the malevolent creature. _"Say my name!"_ It repeats, louder this time. "NO!" You scream in response, falling to your knees as you claw at the tentacles within your reach, flailing. How can your mother not hear you? Where is she? What is that _sm_ _ell?_

_"BY THE POWER OF THE NOBLE CIRCLE,"_

You howl as loud as you can, your eyes squeezed shut in a mixture of fear and panic. You don't know what it's saying anymore, your mind filled only with the sole thought of escaping. You have to get away. You have to get away. _You have to get away._

_"I, PHLEGUTHGN, THE FOURTH SERAPHIM OF SIX,"_

Tears stream down your face, your mouth agape as you thrash on your knees, slamming yourself onto the ground in effort to crush it, or make it stop its satanic chant. It has no effect-- your shoulder rams into the carpet, and you feel it break with the amount of pressure and the angle you threw yourself at. You cry out in animalistic pain.

_"BIND MYSELF TO THEE, ROSE LALONDE,"_

You can no longer think coherently. Your skin is burning where the tentacles are touching you. The pain is overwhelming. It washes over your senses, turning your vision from purple to blood red and back again. You can't breathe. Its tentacles slide over your raw flesh, leaving trails of the hideous mucus that is burning you alive. Make it stop. Make it stop! _MAKE IT STOP!_

_"HENCEFORTH AND FOREVER."_

You roll onto your stomach, your arms suddenly released from their position. You take the opportunity to immediately push yourself off the ground, looking for something-- _anything_ \-- to get this thing off of you. It’s stopped its chanting, but you’re not sure why. On your shelf, you have an ornate mirror that was hand-carved-- something you got at a flea market for free not a few weeks ago. You catch your eyes in the mirror. And then, you see the devil for what it truly is.

Countless tentacles are splayed behind your figure as if it was a ghastly sunburst. Your skin, pallid in color, is stretched tautly across bone so thinly that it's surprising that it hasn't ripped by now. Your face is hollow, your eyes sullen. Your collarbones cast dark shadows against your pasty complexion, easily protruding through your flesh. Your neckline, thin and frail, looks to be made of nothing more than popsicle sticks. No wonder your shoulder broke so easily. Reality hits you hard. You've been deceived this entire time. It was all an illusion. You hadn't eaten, and now you were starving; more than you had ever been before. You hadn't slept, and now you were weak; more tired than sleep could compensate for. You hadn't touched the sun, and now you were pale; more so than either milk or paper. But what is _that_? Your right hand shakily moves up to touch the strange black substance that seems to be oozing out of your wound, when you broke your shoulder. It's icy and viscous to the touch. Is this... your _blood?_

 _"Yes, Rose."_ The voice answers suddenly. It crawls through your mind, slithers through your brain, and drips out your ears. Your entire head pounds, your hands reaching up to press on your temples. Black smears all over the side of your face, and the scent of metal and rust punctures through your nasal cavity. _"Doesn't it hurt? Wouldn't you like me to heal it for you?"_ The monster goads. Your teeth grind together. Its voice has such effect on you, its words scrambling your thoughts, but you're not going to let it win. A tentacle wraps around your shoulder blade and squeezes hard, forcing you to acknowledge pain once again as you clutch the bone that pierced through your thin flesh. More of the viscid black substance leaks from your body, and you feel a scathing fury build underneath your fingertips. It can’t win. You won’t _let_ it win.

“Let go of me,” you say under your breath, panting shallowly. There’s a sickly sweet smell in the air, yet it also reeks of salt. Your skin is covered in a thin layer of slime, reflecting purple in the light of your lamp, and the black that crawls down your arm gives the same feeling that the revolting tentacles do. You won’t address it by name. It won’t get what it wants. _Titles are power. Utterance is ownership. Words are chains._ You had heard it say it before. You know exactly what game it’s trying to play, and you’re _not going to let it win._

_”What is my name?”_

You slip up.

 _Phleguthgn._ The answer was so simple. You had said its name so casually before, and thought it countless times more. It knew you were a heavy thinker. It knew you would get the answer correct. It knew it would win.

Its figure rises up behind your head, balancing on its tentacles in order to see you in the mirror. You make eye contact, and you are filled with hatred, remorse, and most powerfully, fear. Its grotesque form shudders. And then, it smiles. Rows and rows of sharp, jagged teeth appear in the mouth you had known to exist yet never seen.

_”Silly, silly girl.”_

The unhinged jaw of the beast looks large enough to engulf your entire head. Its cavernous throat looks as if it contains a black hole itself, endless, as purple flesh melts into black. Your eyes widen. It’s impossible. It _wouldn’t--_

Teeth sink so deeply into the flesh between your shoulder blades that you don’t even feel the initial pain. Your neck instinctively crunches itself in effort to protect the nerve cord that connects your brain to your body, but it doesn’t seem like that’s what it’s aiming for. The teeth plunge deeper into your practically non-existent muscle.

And then, you _feel_ it.

It gouges. It pierces. It seeps into your very being. And it _hurts_. You toss your head back even further, your arms once again scrambling to tear away the monstrosity that is latched onto your back. Your screeching only pauses for seconds at a time when you take breaths and resume your attempts to call for help; to stop your aggressor and its grinding bite. Your nails dig into the revolting, squishy scales of the devil incarnate, ripping, scratching, doing any damage possible, yet achieving nothing. You feel your "blood" running down your back in thick streams, causing your sickly skin to freeze on contact. Your senses are in overdrive. You can't think. You can't see. You can only feel as it begins to burrow into the hole it’s made.

You're on the floor now, your hands uselessly gouging the carpet of your bedroom as you let out a blood-curling scream. The world is dark around you-- but in your delirious state you still recognize light coming from under the door to the hallway. _Mom._  She'll help you. She'll save you. You drag your bare body over the white textured flooring, your shoulder all but forgotten as adrenaline pounds through what's left of your veins. A trail of black sediment shows where the struggle began, and as you desperately push yourself off the ground in order to reach the doorknob, you scream out yet again. Your spine is _burning_. It's _inside of you._ You have no idea how it fit its humongous body mass into your writhing skeletal form, but you can feel your skin being stretched in order to accommodate for the new circumference. You're still bleeding heavily, but the viscosity of the fluid allows you to keep going, longer than you would have if your blood had still been thin and watery, per the norm. But what had normal ever been? Now, normal was pain.

You manage to wrap clumsy, shaking fingers around the doorknob and twist it sharply enough to allow you passage out of your death trap. The hallway is blindingly lit, but you can’t see any details anyway. You continue to drag yourself along, desperate now. Your mother was downstairs the last time you had seen her a couple of hours ago. You could somehow hear the T.V. through your beastial screaming. She had to have heard you. _Where was she?_

By the time you manage to reach the end of the banister, where the hallway floor turns into a bundle of steps, you're still pressed against the ground. Your entire body is convulsing. You can feel its tentacles inside of you, spreading to each limb, finger, and toe. It would have control of you. It would control you completely now. You were so scared. So scared, so scared, so scared-- and now there was nothing you could do to save yourself. Roxy was your only hope. Mom would rescue you from the nightmare. She would kiss you awake and calm you down. You were dreaming. It was all a dream. You hear yourself give a maniacal laugh. _It's not a dream._

Your pain shifts from your back to your stomach. All at once, the fleshy bulge over your spine migrates to your abdomen, and you flip onto your back in order to relieve the pressure. Your breaths are short. You can feel your organs being pushed out of place as the alien form moves through your body. You didn't know what it wanted. What was it going to do? Were you going to die? You feel sick, delirious, but most of all, nauseous. You feel your throat constrict in spasms, your chest heaving. Your ribs can't take the pressure. You're afraid one of them might break outwardly, and you'll bleed to death. _Where is mom? What is she doing?_

You suddenly begin to choke on salt.

It rushes out from your stomach, surging up your throat and, because you're breathing, a good cupful sloshes back down into your lungs. You heave violently, pushing yourself into an upright position in order to stop the flow. But you can't. There's too much. Water pours from your mouth and nose, spittle mixed in when you try to cough out whatever was caught in your windpipe. You can't breathe without suffocating. You're so scared. What's going on? Why is this happening? _What did you ever do to deserve this?_

Like a beautifully tragic fountain, you collapse at the top of the stairs, the saltwater pouring from your orifice and flowing down the steps in lumbering arcs. The varnished wood doesn't soak much of it in, but you know that it will warp after too long. The water begins to pool at the bottom of the staircase in a matter of seconds and then proceeds to expand from there as if it intends to seek out and drown anything that's in your house. You're terrified now. Where is mom? Is she alright? Why hasn't she heard anything?

Your throat finally clears, and though you have to clench your stomach in order to have time to breathe, you push through. Your stomach seems to have decreased in size, but only barely. How much more water did you contain? You had to have regurgitated at least five gallons, if not more. You take one last clawful of flooring and haul yourself to the edge of the stairs, but you obviously hadn't been able to think that through, tipping over the ledge and tumbling harshly down the slick surface. One of the steps manages to unfortunately hit your stomach, and another mouthful of salt water passes through your lips, filling your nose with the wretched smell and your mouth with the nauseating taste. You land in the puddle of water on the first floor, half of your naked body submerged in the warm liquid.

Your throat is completely ruined. The screaming, stomach acid, and salt water have decimated your vocal chords. You can only croak now, and that’s what you do. The nausea subsides temporarily, and you take the chance to crack open the eye that isn't covered in fluids. Your blurry vision catches sight of the flat screen in the living room, and you see the silhouette of someone’s head peeking over the back of the couch. _Mom._

Your palms, which have started to wrinkle despite only touching the water for a brief amount of time, slap against the wooden surface underneath you. The water makes it easier for you to traverse the distance between yourself and your mother, and you slip along on your side, using your right forearm to support your torso while your left throbbed in pain. You had forgotten about your broken bone up until your ill-advised journey down the stairs.

You stop two more times in order to empty your stomach further. By the time you reach the couch, your abdomen has shrunk to a more reasonable size, and the pains have mostly subsided. You shakily get to your knees, crawling on three limbs. Your belly sags with its newfound weight, and in the light of the television, you swear your skin is grey. But you can’t muse on that. Mom would help you. She would know what to do. Maybe she was passed out from drinking. Maybe she was just absorbed in her show. _No. Something’s wrong. It’s not right._

“M-om?” You say, your voice barely amounting to a whisper. You try harder, swallowing the salt back down as you pull yourself together. Your head is spinning and you feel like the world is a giant mess of black and white, but your good hand finds the arm of the couch, and you lift yourself onto your knees, readying yourself to speak louder.

Your words stop before you even have the chance to say them. Your mother. Your guardian. Your one, your only, your beloved, is resting peacefully. Her eyes are closed, her full lashes resting against her high cheekbones. Her head, upright, is what you saw over the back of the couch. Her body, however, is slumped over, her shoulders aimed towards you. You can see her spine poking out from her stump neck, her muscles and tissues covered in dried blood acting as a sealant. The ragged edges at the end of Roxy’s head and neck imply that something ate through her flesh. You can’t believe it. You won’t believe it. This isn’t happening. None of this is real. It’s all a lie.

”No, Rose. This **is** the truth.” You hear yourself say. Your voice is cracked, weak, and listless. You didn’t intend to make those words. Your hand moves up to your mouth, feeling it as it works to say something else. Your lips quirk into a smile.

"I killed her for you.”

Your entire world shatters.

You try to scream again. Your anguish overwhelms any physical pain you experienced, drowning your mind with the insanity of loss. You fall to the ground again, raggedly breathing, coughing up more saltwater. Your body can’t handle this. You can’t handle this. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want _any_  of this anymore. You wanted everything to go back to the way it was. Back to your birthday party four years ago, when you still had friends. Back to when John moved away but Dave and Jade were still close to you. Back to when Jade’s grandfather decided to build a new business center on a Pacific Island somewhere and your mother had to find a new job but the two of you were happy. Back to when Dirk and Dave moved away as Dirk found a better position and Dave bought you a locket with his meager allowance to remember him by. Back to when your mother kissed you goodnight and left the nightlight on. Back to when you hadn’t met Phleguthgn.

Your tears are hot on your face, and you collapse into yourself. Everything you knew to be true was gone. As your throat gives out, your screams echo in your mind. Your breathing is uneven, and your heartbeat is erratic. You feel the thing in your stomach squirm, and the nausea returns. _Let me go. Let me go! LET ME GO!_ Salt empties from your trembling, broken form. You’re nothing more than a shell now.

Darkness fills your vision eventually, casting you into the abyss you know as dreamless sleep. Everything around you is black, but at the same time, you recognize the swirling forms of tentacles encasing the space you exist within. You drop farther into the endless pit, your arms dangling above you in the free-fall. They glow an alien shade of grey, and you turn your palms towards your face. Phleguthgn’s eyes stare back at yours.

 _”Happy Birthday, Rose,”_ they wink.

Your name is now ROSEPHLEGU THGNLALONDE. You have recently turned ELEVEN THOUSAND YEARS OLD. And after four years of waiting, four years of preparation, and four years of deceit, you have finally completed the CONTRACT OF THE ELDRITCH.


	3. Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no living relatives, Rose Lalonde is sent to the Dolorosa's Orphanage. Unfortunately, as time passes, it seems like nothing is getting better...
> 
> TW: Vomiting

Orphan.

The word is stamped on your file like a hot iron but you can’t feel the burn. You stare up at your caseworker, a nice woman with pale skin and a soft smile and try your best to smile at her as you sit awkwardly in the chair before her desk. A glance at her eyes tell you that whatever face you made had turned into a grimace. She clears her throat after shuffling your papers, taking out a fountain pen from a white mug with a large black spade on it. You keep your gaze focused on it. It’s the best you can do to let her know you’re paying attention. 

“Miss Lalonde--” She begins.

“Rose.” You cut her off quickly. 

“...Err, alright, Rose.” She adjusts quickly, then continues. “Do you know who your grandparents are? Can you tell me their names? Where they live?”

You shake your head.

“I see. And your father? 

“Dead.” 

The silence spans heavily between you two as the word falls listlessly from your lips. Ms. Paint, as her name plate states, gives you a sympathetic sigh before trying one more time.

“It says here you have a godmother. Mrs… Jane Crocker? Is she--?”

“Cancer.”

After that, it seems like her shoulders sag. She bows her head to write something on your file, and then she stamps something in red at the top of the page.

Orphan.

“I’m so sorry for your losses, dear.”

You can only manage a terse nod as your eyes drop to the floor. 

You’re transferred to the Dolorosa’s Orphanage as soon as your paperwork is finished, ushered through various processes that seem both convoluted and useless. You barely recall getting fingerprinted and photographed to get put into a database. You’re reassured in the car that the matron is a nice woman with a lovely smile. The worker that greets you at the orphanage door insists that being an orphan isn’t anything like what the movies make it out to be, and even offers to make you some hot chocolate to warm you up. You decline silently by taking your bags inside. None of the adults stop you, but none of them look comfortable either.

A part of you still can’t believe this is happening. After all, it’s not like you can remember any of the incident.

Every time your therapist asks you to think back to the event you draw a blank, as if the film reel of your life is missing a giant portion of footage. Ms. Mindfang believes it to be a form of PTSD. Forced amnesia, or something of the like. You’re perfectly aware of what happened based on the police reports, but you know deep, deep down that it was not the hypothesized cannibalistic serial killer who murdered your mother. You don’t feel comfortable enough to share this instinct for two reasons. One, you don’t have any evidence, and two, you don’t want to incite any of the following questions.

And, all things aside, the authorities still consider you to be their top suspect.

If you gave them reason to question your intent or your supposed amnesia, you were scared you’d get into even more trouble.

You just wanted to go home.

 

* * *

 

“Rose, darling,” the matron’s voice calls softly. You look up from the book you hadn’t been reading, curled up on a chair near the window.

“The dictionary. It’s upside down.”

You glance downward, stare for a moment, then right the garbled mass of text in your lap.

“...Thank you, Dolorosa.”

The woman takes graceful, flowing steps to your side, kneeling down in front of you. Her skin is warm shade of mocha, her hair brown and soft in texture. You hesitate before you meet her earnest jade eyes.

“Would you like to see Ms. Mindfang tonight?” The matron asks. She places a light hand on your knee, but the touch feels like a mass of needles on your flesh. You pull away and she doesn’t pursue.

“I’d like to read.” You reply stiffly. The Dolorosa stares at you as you drop your gaze.

“...Will you really read? Or will you stay up all night again?” Her tone is full of concern and worry and it honestly makes you a bit nauseous to think about.

“I’d like to read.” You repeat. She apparently takes the hint.

“Tomorrow, I’d like for you to have a session with Ms. Mindfang. Perhaps after dinner?” Her gentle British accent dusts your ears, and you have the instinct to swat it away. The suggestion remains, however, and you know she knows that you know “no” is not an answer.

You nod.

“Good. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow then, okay?”

You nod again.

Her skirt stirs the air in a ghostly manner and trails after her steps long after she’s gone. The door to the study is left open so people can poke in as they please but you don’t expect anyone to pause for you. The freaky new girl.

You got the feeling you weren’t going to make many friends.

 

* * *

Months fly past your tired, dead eyes. Aside from the meals, appointments, and baths, you rarely move from your chair in the study. The comfortable velvet fabric brings a nostalgia you couldn't explain. Among the static, shifting noise of the people around you and the meaningless words they say, the chair and its existence was the only thing you trust.

Over time, the Dolorosa grows less kind with your stoic attitude. Ms. Paint stopped checking up on you four weeks ago because you hadn’t caused any major problems. You’re fairly sure that Ms. Mindfang finds your lack of depth boring. Even Mother Nature herself has betrayed you, shifting the scenery outside from snow to spring to summer to fall. Such change makes you uneasy but from the safety of your chair, you’ve watched it all in peace. The surroundings are finally rolling back into the season you remember best. The room is chilly when you go to sleep, making you bundle yourself tightly in your blanket. The leaves outside abandoned their posts in the old maple next to the window, and the flat December mornings make everything look pale and lifeless in the obvious absence of movement.

It’s winter once more.

You stir as a dreamless slumber releases you. Your neck has long since gotten used to the angle at which you sleep in your recliner, and the weight of your frail body has left an imprint on the cushions. You must not have moved last night. You hear the clangs of pots and pans, the usual din of feasting children floating up the stairs. You stretch quietly, looking to see that the third volume of Sherlock Holmes is still on the side table before you untuck your legs and stand slowly. Your toes flex against the hardwood floor and you bend over in order to pop your back. The ache in your spine is ever-present, but you pay it no mind. You’ve become accustomed to the ache.

Your footsteps are feather-light as you descend the stairs. The dining room door is wide open and you sneak in without notice, the only person paying you any mind as you sit being a boy named Karkat.

“About time you showed up,” he mutters under his breath, spooning mouthfuls of oatmeal. You say nothing, merely accepting an offered basket as its passed to you to take a loaf of white bread. Karkat pushes a butter platter to you and you use your knife to spread the creamy substance as the boy proceeds to demand some Fruit Loops in your place. Your eyes remain downcast as you slowly bite and chew, but you feel his expectant gaze.

“Good morning.” You finally say. He relaxes as the conversation begins.

“How’d you sleep in that gaudy excuse for a piece of furniture?”

“Fine.” You respond, your lips barely twitching. “How about you?”

“Absolutely fucking peachy, thanks.” He responds sarcastically. You raise an eyebrow at his use of language, and he growls.

“What? I can cuss under my breath, can’t I? Goddamn, and here I thought this was a free country.”

“Yes, but the Dolorosa is a matron, not a direct servant of the government. This is her home before it is an orphanage, and one of her rules is not to swear.” You speak softly, though you’re sure to be loud enough for Karkat to hear.

“Yeah, so? We’re still stuck here because of the shitty social services though, so as far as I’m concerned: fuck that. Here.”

You give a shrug, then look as he waves to get your attention. He hands you a bowl of sugar and milk, and you take it gratefully. You set it down in front of you, but you don’t touch it. For some reason, your head is starting to hurt. This is why you don’t speak much. Talking hurts. And only bad things happen when you speak.

_That’s right, Rose. Keep quiet and nothing will be the matter._

“...Well? You gonna eat or not?” His voice rings in your head suddenly. Your jaw clenches as your brain gives a subtle throb, and you have to take a deep breath in order to respond. The voice in your head had told you something, but as soon as it spoke, you forgot. But Karkat had asked you a question, and you felt the urge to respond.

“S… Soon.”

_Bad girl, Rose. You spoke up. You know what happens next._

Karkat notices the strain at the corner of your eyes, and you can sense him immediately get put on edge. A pressure in your abdomen is suddenly making it hard to breathe. “Rose?” He asks, caution in his tone as one of his hands lifts to hover next to your shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you--”

“Cherry pie.”

His entire body freezes as you feel your stomach begin to churn. You know this sensation all too well, and as Karkat knocks his chair backwards in order to scramble out, you cross your arms tightly against your chest and close your eyes.

_Breathe in… Breathe out… Breathe in… Breathe ou--_

All at once, you dispel the meager, mostly undissolved contents of your breakfast into a plastic bucket that Karkat shoves underneath your chin.

You cough when you realize you're suddenly lacking oxygen and a firm pat on the back dislodges a piece of crust, plopping into the watery stomach fluids that had little other nutrients. The hand comes back to rub soothing circles between your shoulders, and as the dizziness subsides, you realize that everyone’s staring at you. You give a weak cough as you shiver over the bucket, suddenly ready for round two, and the taste of salt doesn’t make things better.

You want to go home. You want to go _home_.

“What’re you all looking at, huh?! Buzz off, idjits, can’t you see she’s just sick?!” Karkat exclaims from behind you, and you can only give a weak murmur in effort to argue. “Shut up, Rose. C’mon, let’s get you to a real bed and then I’ll call the Dolorosa and she’ll take care of everything, alright? Don’t you dare throw up on me, Lalonde, or I swear I’ll-- hey!”

You hear him shout your name just before you feel yourself slide off the chair and faint.

 

* * *

 

 

“This isn’t the first time it’s happened,” you hear a voice say.

“Are you sure? Rose hasn’t mentioned a thing about these episodes to me.” Another responds.

You stir to consciousness with the foreign sensation of a blanket covering your wry form. You’re on your back and the lights are dim. The voices-- female-- are still talking, so you figure they haven’t realized you’re awake. You recognize that it's the Dolorosa and Ms. Mindfang after you blink yourself into full alertness, and you can tell they’re talking about you. In order to discern exactly what’s going on, however, you close your eyes once more, eavesdropping.

“Yes. She used to have them frequently until Karkat came along in the spring, but these episodes are very reminiscent of the days when she first arrived…” The Dolorosa seems troubled. The woman worried herself about every orphan like they were her own child.

“I see. I don’t think they can be explained with just that, though. Perhaps it’s because of subconscious triggers? We are nearing the anniversary, after all…” Ms. Mindfang’s higher-pitched, more contemplative tone responded.

“Perhaps. Until we figure it out, the best we can do is take care of her, or find people that convince her to trust them.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, I’ve already attempted to speak with her mother’s old employer, Mr. English. He was in no position to help-- he’s nearing the end of his life and he has a teenager of his own. That was months ago, anyhow, and I have no doubt his condition has only worsened..."

As Ms. Mindfang speaks, the image of an unfamiliar black-haired buck-toothed girl and mustachioed old man flashes through your mind, making you shift uncomfortably. Your leg nudges something, however, and someone gives a low grunt. The voices cease immediately as you freeze.

“...I think that was just Karkat.” You give a subtle sigh of relief. “The poor dear hasn’t left her side since this morning. I could barely convince him to leave the room so I could change her into clean clothes.”

“Mm, yes, that’s understandable. He’s very dedicated to his friends. When he can make them, anyways.”

You feel Karkat shift near your left leg, and because you’re doing much better than this morning, you carefully sit up, peering over the blankets. His arms are crossed on the edge of the bed, his head tilted as he sleeps at your side. You move your eyes from the back of his shaggy head of black hair to glimpse bright red numbers. The atomic clock on the nightstand reads 11:25. You’ve missed an entire day, it seems, and Karkat apparently sacrificed his own time to take care of you. The guilt settles neatly on your shoulders, but at the same time, a small part of your heart felt… warm.

You felt warm on a winter night for the first time in over a year.

“...Porrim?” Ms. Mindfang begins, her voice soft.

“Yes, Marquise?” You strain to listen to their voices as they hush themselves.

“Could we step into your office? I’ve been thinking about an experiment. For therapeutic purposes, of course.”

"Yes, of course..." Ms. Mindfang's words are lost to two sets of clicking heels, and a door swings shut on oiled hinges.

You silently exhale.

A firm nudge gets a “Huh, what?” from the boy at your bedside, and once he’s awake enough to acknowledge where he is, you take one of his hands and haul him onto the mattress with you.

“Rose, what’re you--?” He’s clearly confused but he doesn’t protest further, and for that much you’re thankful. You don’t know what you’re doing and you don’t know why you’re doing it, but this warmth in your chest… You don’t want to lose it. You urge him under the covers and proceed to tuck against him, his frame definitively more solid than yours. Whereas your limbs are spindly and thin, his are healthy and strong; supportive but awkward. He doesn’t know where to put his hands and he’s flustered, you can tell.

You breathe in. For once, you don’t smell salt.

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

His hand finds the back of your head and he pets your hair.

Your name is ROSE LALONDE. Today is 00:12 on DECEMBER 1ST. And for some reason, for the first time in a whole year, you cry.

You miss your family.

You miss your mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suppose this chapter is long overdue. I actually had it pretty much finished like... a year ago. But hey. Better late than never.
> 
> I have the next two chapters entirely planned out. And since I'm on break, maybe I'll actually get around to writing them.
> 
> Who knows.
> 
> Let's find out.


	4. Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ms. Mindfang's "therapeutic experiment" was taking Rose to her house, the scene of the incident almost a full year ago. While she's there, however, she discovers something that links her back to her past.

“They say that the criminal always returns to the scene of their crime.”

You glance over at Karkat, and when he sees your head turn, he meets your gaze. The two of you are sitting in the back of Ms. Mindfang’s car, driving through the winding roads of upstate, rural New York. The terrain looks familiar yet unfamiliar-- the kind of passing imagery you’d see in the transition of a scenic film. You try not to pay too much mind to it. It makes you nauseous to watch for too long.

“That is true. And psychologically speaking, it makes sense.” Aranea’s voice is soft in the front seat. You decided somewhere around mile marker 413 that you don’t like the way it sounds.

“Why is that?” Karkat replies. They’ve been talking to fill the silence the entire time, and you are content with listening. You haven’t said a word since last night (this morning?) when you huddled against the boy next to you. He asked you earlier if you were okay, and you just nodded. Silent.

You didn’t want to throw up again.

“Because humankind is fascinated with morbidity and trauma.” Aranea explains. Karkat listens intently. He’s gotten better about not interrupting people. “Do you remember the first time you ever hurt yourself, dear?”

“Um… I...  fell off a swing and cut my leg on a tree branch. I think.”

“Now, do you remember the first time you hurt someone else?”

“Yeah. I punched Tommy Sanders in his stupid, smug little nose because he broke my crayon.”

“What is the difference between these two things?”

“Uh… I hurt myself in one, and somebody else in the other?”

“Yes, but even more subtle than that. How much more clearly do you recall the second event with Tommy, rather than your experience on the swing?”

“...a lot, I guess.”

You note that Karkat looks perplexed. You get the idea that he doesn’t think about this kind of stuff too often, but he looks incredibly intrigued.

“That’s right. You remember it because you recall the experience you shared with another person. And, even more than that, you remember it better because you hurt someone. You caused them pain.”

Your neck tingles for some reason. You close your eyes to distract yourself.

“When humans commit acts of violence against one another, it’s usually for one of two reasons. Either because they have a motive, or they’re protecting themselves. In that case with Tommy, you had a motive. Other times, you’ve got into fights because someone did something to you first. Right?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Now, you’ve never killed anyone, have you?”

“N-No! Of course not!”

You taste salt.

“I know you haven’t. But let’s just say you have, for example’s sake.”

“O… Okay. So, I killed someone. Who did I kill?”

“I don’t know. Who did you kill? That’s something neither of us know, I suppose. But let’s say it was… Kankri, the mailman. You don’t like the mailman very much, do you?”

“No. He’s obnoxious. He always makes a point to find me and lecture me about combing my hair or brushing my teeth or blah blah blah. He’s annoying!”

She laughs lightly. It reminds you of dewdrops. “I thought you’d say so. But let’s just pretend you killed him in the garden, on the west side of the house. And you were very, very careful about cleaning up.”

“W-Well, of course I’d be careful! I don’t wanna get caught…”

Your throat throbs for some reason.

“But what if the police came? And they did a very, very thorough investigation of the garden?”

Karkat shifts nervously. “I’d watch them. Just to make sure that they don’t find anything to catch me.”

“So what would you do?”

“I’d go back to where I killed Kankri to go over everything one more time, to make sure that I… ah!” He blinks, as if piecing it together. “I would go back! To the scene of the crime!”

“Yes, you would. And so would a lot of other people. The reason that criminals are said to return to the scene of the crime is because of paranoia.”

Your skin itches for some reason.

“Paranoia? Is it really that influential?”

“Yes, I’d say so. Don’t you get nervous whenever you walk into a room and people stop talking when they see you? You’d think they were talking about you, right?”

“Um… I guess so.”

“And what happens after that?”

“I… don’t like them as much anymore…?”

Aranea hums thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

Karkat shifts next to you again. He didn’t get a straight answer, and he hates inconclusive conversations. At least, when he’s not the one making them inconclusive.

“What do you think then, Ms. Mindfang? What happens after you get paranoid?”

“Dangerous things.” She replies. “All sorts of very dangerous things.”

The car goes silent. For once, it seems, Karkat doesn’t know what to say. Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Your eyes are heavy and closed, so you’re not sure if you passed out or not, but the next thing you know, Aranea speaks up.

“Oh, look. We’re here.”

Your eyes peel themselves open. A large, ominous white house in the middle of the woods is what greets you. Modern in design; it looks out of place. Not to mention that it bridges a river-- isn’t that dangerous?

Even as Aranea parks the car and looks back at you expectantly, you don’t say anything. As soon as the engine turns off, you unbuckle your seatbelt, pulling on the handle to get out. You’d had a slight headache the entire time Karkat and Ms. Mindfang were conversing, and you could do without motion sickness. You take a deep breath, then sigh.

“Do you remember anything?” The woman asks as if simply seeing a random house in the middle of nowhere was supposed to make your amnesia magically disappear. You shake your head and start to walk, heading for what looked to be the front door. Footsteps catch up with you, and Karkat is once more by your side.

“Nice house,” he compliments. It doesn’t mean anything to you.

The cement steps are firm under your feet. Karkat lingers behind to make sure you don’t faint or get vertigo. The front door is tall, taller than you are at your almost-12 year old stature of 4’11. You stare at the white-washed wood, wondering what could be behind it.

“Well, Rose? You have the key.”

You’re reminded by Ms. Mindfang of the chain around your neck. You take the unobtrusive silver key from between your budding breasts, gripping it between your thumb and forefinger. Karkat shivers in the December breeze, and somehow, you only now realize that there’s snow all around you.

You don’t feel the cold.

The door unlocks easily. You’re not sure why you expected it to stay shut, but after you hear the firm _cl-click_ , you push it open.

“Go on, dear. Step inside. Look around for as long as you need to.”

The interior is… strange to you. Foreboding. It’s dark inside, and though it’s been a long time since you’ve ever been struck with your fear of the shadows, it hits you now, and it hits you hard. Karkat senses your discomfort, and he presses a little closer to you, his shoulder almost burning hot compared to your icy skin. And for some reason, taking that first step across the threshold is the hardest thing you’ve had to do all week.

It’s as if the entire house is holding its breath as your shoes make a wet sound on the warped hardwood flooring.

“Wow… this place is huge.” Karkat’s right behind you. You are more discreet about taking in your surroundings, but his head is tipped back, mouth agape as he stares at a statue, easily two stories in height. “And what the fuck is--?”

“Karkat?”

“What the _hell_ is--?”

“Karkat.”

“What _is_ that thing?!”

“A wizard,” you say. Both Aranea and Karkat turn their gazes to you in confusion, but you’re already moving past them; through the living room and up the hovering stairs. They creak under your weight, and you wonder how long it’s been since someone-- _you_ \-- lived here. Less than a year, right? Funny how fast dust collects…

Karkat is on your heels as usual. Aranea stays downstairs. You move like you’re in a trance, pushing through each step with your malnourished weight. It feels like you’re pushing against an invisible current-- like something is trying to prevent you from seeing… something. But you, in all of your broken spirit and shell-like glory, still hold fast to the idea of rebellion.

You’re not going to give up.

“...Rose, are you okay?” The most common question out of Karkat’s mouth, really. You give a terse nod, your hand gripping the banister as you make your way down the short hallway. Your destination is a closed door, and you don’t know how you know that, but you do. It’s the one directly in front of you.

The closer you get, the worse you feel-- your legs are getting weak, and your head is starting to pound. “Rose, you really don’t look so hot. Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?” Hands hover near you, and you only have enough strength to grab onto Karkat’s wrist and silently demand his aid. He complies, helping you along until the point where your breathing gets labored.

_Why are you fighting, Rose? Why are you doing this to yourself? Just turn around and the pain will go away._

You don’t know why, but you snarl. The words are gone as suddenly as they’d appeared, but Karkat’s bafflement remains consistent.

“Rose, I really think that--”

“Shut up.”

You’re close. You’re close, and you can _feel it_. There is something in your bones that is pushing you towards this door, towards the _truth_ , and you aren’t going to let it slip from your grasp. Sweat is rolling down your forehead at this point, and Karkat’s wrist feels like a burning piece of iron in your clenched fist. “Ms. Mindfang, I- I think you should get up here,” Karkat calls worriedly, and the creaking of the steps rings in your ears.

Your hand reaches out, and it’s like the world bends around it. Like no matter how far you stretch, the door’s handle will continue to elude your grasp.

But Karkat’s other hand takes _your_  wrist and suddenly everything snaps into focus.

You’re holding onto the door handle of your room.

You’ve done this before.

It opens when you twist the knob, and for a single second, you feel your heart stop. The nausea is gone. The headache, gone. The only thing you’re left with is a permeating sense of confusion and disorientation, but it’s enough to make you move forward. Karkat tries turning the lights on for you, but they don’t work.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

“I know what I’m looking for.”

 

* * *

 

Within the day, a man by the name of Dirk Strider is contacted. Within ten minutes of that phone call, a plane is booked. At midnight on December 2nd, technically the eve of December 3rd, a pair of men arrive at the orphanage.

You watch them get out of their taxi from your window, huddled in the chair that had given you comfort for so long. A small heart-shaped pendant is pressed against your chest, your thumb anxiously opening it and snapping it shut. _Flk-cl-click, flk-cl-click._

The younger blond with aviator shades; the one running for the door with anxiety written all over his face and body language.

Was he the one who gave this to you?

“From D.S.”, the back of the pendant said, etched messily in chicken-scratch handwriting. Inside was a picture of two goofy-looking children, so similar in appearance you might have mistaken them for siblings. One of them you can barely recognize as yourself, tooting what looks to be a kazoo. The other, a seemingly younger version of the boy outside, has chopsticks shoved up each one of his nostrils. When you’d found the pendant on your bookshelf, his name had slipped past your lips unconsciously.

It was a good thing Karkat caught it, otherwise you’d never have met Dave again.

There’s a knock on the doorway to the study. You look over from your perch, and you meet the anxious gaze of your friend.

“Is that the guy?” He asks you. You blink at him slowly before looking back at the picture in your hand.

No. That’s not him. You don’t know that boy at all.

“Yes,” you say suddenly, looking up. “That is definitely him.”

Karkat doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyways, gesturing for you to come with him. You’ve never felt particularly anxious before, but now, suddenly confronted with the idea of meeting someone from your past, you get worried. What if you’re not who they’re expecting? What if they’re not who _you're_  expecting? What if it’s the wrong Dave, or the wrong Dirk, or they actually don’t care at all and they’re here to… to give their last farewell?

Karkat had crossed the distance between you while you were caught up in your thoughts, and his hand is the first thing you feel upon refocusing on the world around you.

“Come on, Rose. Let’s go downstairs.”

For some reason, you get the feeling that this is the last time you’re ever going to see this room.

The Dolorosa, Ms. Mindfang, and the two strangers are all gathered in the foyer when you and Karkat descend the staircase. Your left fist is clenched around the pendant like it’s a charm of some sort, and your right hand is firmly twined with Karkat’s. You’re scared, and perhaps that’s a bit too obvious from the way that the women’s faces soften with concern, but you’re more focused on Dave.

“Rose?”

_Dave._

The moment your feet touch the bottom of the staircase, there are arms wrapped around your shoulders. The scent of cologne washes over you-- a _boy's_ cologne-- and for some reason your eyes prick. Karkat’s hand is still tight in yours, and when you give him a glance out of the corner of your eyes, his face is cherry red, but you can’t be too concerned with him. After all, a stranger is hugging you like their life depends on it, and it’s all you can do to slowly lift a hand and touch his back.

“Oh, god, Rose. I’m so sorry.” His voice sounds strained. You wonder for a moment if he’s used to crying because it certainly doesn’t sound like it. You wonder then if _anyone_ can be used to crying, but it seems a moot point. Your shoulders are squeezed a little more and you let out a soft, uncomfortable whine. You don’t like being touched. Master doesn’t like it when people touch you.

But he doesn’t let go.

You’re somehow okay with this.

“We came as soon as we heard. You’re- You’re all right, right? I-I mean, not all right, your mom is- everything is- you’re at an orphanage- but, you’re okay? You’re…” He trails off in his rambling, and you’re suddenly curious as to what went through his head. Karkat’s hand squeezes yours, and Dave suddenly pulls away, very slowly drawing back until both of his hands are atop your shoulders, delicate and thin.

His brow is furrowed.

“You… You remember me, right?”

The adults are talking, so they don’t feel the awkward silence that spans between you. You can see your own lilac eyes in the reflection of his aviators, the warm orange lights of the foyer making everything seem dreamlike in quality. His gaze flickers across yours, and yours across his.

“No,” you finally answer. Gently. Carefully. “But I wish I did.”

You taste salt.

He looks crestfallen. Heartbroken. But you open your left palm and show him the locket, the pendant that he apparently gave you. When he sees it, he stiffens slightly, opening a palm to take it. You let him, and he inspects it closer, turning it around to thumb the etching he’d left.

“...You still had this?”

“I guess,” you shrug. He doesn’t know that you had been without it for almost a year, and that it’d probably been misplaced in the time before that since he gave it to you, but he accepts your answer.

“I gave it to you for your 9th birthday. The year that Bro and I had to move to Texas.” He explains, and you nod in understanding. That would make sense. From the time you were about 5 or 6 until the day after your mother’s apparent murder, you had no memories. For his present to have fallen within that window was reasonable, and you were content with that explanation.

Dave gives a bitter smile.

_Don’t forget me, Rose._

“I’m glad you didn’t forget me after all.”

His voice echoes in your ears, and you blink. You’re not sure why-- you’re not sure what that little reverberation was. But you do know that this pendant was special in that it’d brought the two of you back together. Dave’s hands had fallen away from your shoulders in order to cup the pendant, but your right hand is still tightly grasped in Karkat’s fist.

“...I’ll go get your clothes,” the russet-haired boy mutters suddenly. And then the warmth is gone.

You look over your shoulder to see him hurry up the stairs. You can’t imagine what drove him to abscond so suddenly, or why he’d need to get your clothes, but when you look back at Dave, he’s holding the pendant out to you again.

“Keep it. I want you to keep it.” So you do, taking the heart and chain and tucking it into your pocket. He gives you a smile-- a smirk, maybe, is more accurate-- and he lets out a sigh before that too falls away.

“...I’m sorry we didn’t find out about all this sooner, Rose. But it’s okay now. We’ll take care of you, I promise. Bro is gonna finish up the paperwork, and that guy is getting your clothes… so as soon as they’re both done, we can leave.”

And despite that you know his name and you remember how to speak English quite well, you have no idea what to say in response.

So you don’t say anything at all.

 

* * *

 

“Good bye, Rose.”

He’s tough. He’s always been tough. But you’re positive that you’ve never seen Karkat look so dejected.

You’re wearing a coat that the Dolorosa had knit you last January, almost a year ago. It still fit you rather snugly, and you didn’t really have anything else that constituted ‘proper winter clothing’. Fur-lined boots and black leggings under a skirt are all you have to keep you warm, but as usual, you don’t feel chilled in the slightest.

Your breath doesn’t fog as you sigh.

He gives you a look as if you’re dying. As if this is the last time he’ll see you, the last time he’ll ever meet you. It’s been a long time since you’ve made an expression other than pain or neutrality, so concern looks like a grimace. But he understands it. And he shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. You just… take care, okay? And let me know if either of them try anything funny. I’ll be there in a second.”

Your lips twitch into a smile, and he smiles back. He hugs you, and you hug him back.

“I… I’ll miss you, Rose.”

You nod into his shoulder. For one of the first people that had made an impression on you after your amnesia, you were sure you’d miss him too.

You pull away as Dave walks by, toting along your tiny suitcase. He casts you a glance, then Karkat, and the two of them seem to share a mutual scowl before the blond is trudging through the snow. You can’t imagine why they’d show one another such an expression, but you don’t really care to ask.

It’s late. Past midnight. You can see the bags under Karkat’s eyes, and you’re sure that you’re going to pass out in the car. His hand finds yours again, and somehow, you’re reminded of something. Something you wanted to do.

You kiss him.

“Good bye, Karkat.”

Your name is ROSE LALONDE. And exactly one year after you became an orphan, on the day of your 12th birthday, you were adopted by DIRK STRIDER. You kissed your best friend KARKAT VANTAS as a goodbye and farewell. Shortly after, you were whisked away from THE DOLOROSA’S ORPHANAGE, your home for the past twelve months, in order to move to HOUSTON, TEXAS.

What you don’t know is that after you turned away and got into the taxi, Karkat rubbed his lips, smacking them. Confused.

“Karkat? Is something wrong?” The Dolorosa asked him.

“...she,” he started uncertainly. He watched the taxi light up, the tires lurch into motion as three passengers were driven away from the orphanage. He seemed distracted; distant, almost. Lost in thought. Then, finally, once the red tail lights were completely out of view, he let out a shuddering breath, as if he'd seen a ghost.

And for a moment, perhaps, he had.

“She tasted like salt.”


End file.
